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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27786367">trust</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jace_Diaz_Of_Hell/pseuds/Jace_Diaz_Of_Hell'>Jace_Diaz_Of_Hell</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, No Plot, Thinkpiece, not quite 1000 words of angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 01:15:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27786367</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jace_Diaz_Of_Hell/pseuds/Jace_Diaz_Of_Hell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nebula thinks about trust, and lack thereof.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>trust</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Nebula Starling likes to smile and tell the world she’s fine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nebula Starling likes to lie her ass off, she thinks as one of the makeup technicians do her eyeliner. As she grips the water bottle tighter, taking one last drink before she has to go on stage.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She says she’s fine, that she can do this. And when she’s backstage that night, she even thinks she can.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But then she steps out past the curtains.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The bright lights of the stage turn into the bright lights of an interrogation chamber, and the cheering turns to yelling, to voices accusing, and all Nebula can do is stare. Her hands threaten to shake, and that won’t do at </span>
  <em>
    <span>all. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She strides forward confidently, following the choreography plan, and outwardly her expression is perfect. Internally, she’s tamping down her panic. Compartmentalizing it. Boxing it away with the memory of her uncle’s face, with the pipe coming down, the knife’s sharp pain. None of that is here. None of that is now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She lifts her head and grins, and as the music starts, she dances. It almost makes her feel better.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Almost. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Nebula Starling likes to lie her ass off, even to herself.)</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After the concert is both better and worse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s better because she’s off the stage, out of the lights that blind her- even though she loves them on her better nights, the reminder that all eyes are on her and her fellow idols. It’s better because she’s spent the whole night doing what she loves. It’s better because Pepper, her bodyguard, is only a few feet away from her, and the Phlaphin makes her feel more safe than she has in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>long </span>
  </em>
  <span>time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s worse because the distraction is over. It’s worse because her bad leg is </span>
  <em>
    <span>aching, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and she doesn’t even want to stand up again. It’s worse because she can hear crowds of people clamouring to get backstage when this concert isn’t allowing that, and each yell overlaps with the memories screaming in Nebula’s head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tries to let herself breathe. She looks at Hoss, who’s leaning back against the couch, bubbly and happy about their successful concert, and then she looks at Aaza. She reminds herself that she’s here in the present, not back on that ship with her traitor Uncle. Aaza gives her a look, the kind of one that asks her how she’s doing, and Nebula answers back with a subtle, reflexive thumbs up. Then reconsiders, and makes a see-saw motion with her hands for </span>
  <em>
    <span>so-so. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aaza gives her an understanding look. All of this is accompanied by completely expressionless ways on their part, apart from the eyes, and then they’re back to smiles and talking with Hoss. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aaza doesn’t know everything that Nebula’s been through, but she probably is one of the few people out there who really </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>Nebula, despite that. And right now? That counts for a lot. Aaza steps up into the conversation, starts engaging more so that all Nebula has to do is nod or hum in acknowledgement every once in a while.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>paying attention, though. She feels guilty about it, because Hoss just really wants to talk and there’s nothing wrong with that, but Nebula </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The room wavers, and Nebula’s mind keeps drifting back to that ship, that day. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She thinks Hoss might know more than she lets on, because her voice gets bubblier and her smile gets kinder, and by the time their ride is there Nebula almost feels like she can breathe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She takes the lead of their little group when the doors open and the fan’s screaming doubles, her head thrown back confidently and her leg refusing to buckle. Her hands only shake a little bit, and Nebula tells herself it’s a victory.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s worn out from the concert and hours of pushing back panic. The ride to the nearest space port, where they’ll be taking off, only makes it worse, and by the time they get back to their ship Nebula is dead on her feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They enter in through the cargo bay, and Nebula seeks out the nicks in the wall, barely visible to anyone who wasn’t there the night she killed someone for boarding and then wiped out his entire ship for good measure. For hurting the people she cares about. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She remembers that, the blood on her hands and on her clothes and face. Remembers the confident way she had wielded the knife, how cold she had felt inside. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a moment, she wonders if that was the kind of cold her Uncle had felt when he ordered her torture and eventual execution.  And then she excuses herself, heads to her rooms and just barely manages to shut the door before the memories take over. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sits down on the bed and covers her ears, closes her eyes against the tears that keep welling up no matter how hard she beats them back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How could her Uncle have turned that cold, that unforgiving, to his </span>
  <em>
    <span>niece? </span>
  </em>
  <span>To his own family? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nebula had been just a few weeks shy of her twenty fourth birthday. She had been forced to kneel with a broken leg, and had had a blaster held to the back of her head, and thought she wouldn’t live to see it dawn. All of this by the same man who had used to sing her lullabies, carry her on his shoulders. She had loved her uncle. She had trusted him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How was she supposed to trust someone ever again if the same man who had always held her as a toddler with such care would hurt her without a second thought?</span>
</p>
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